Supergirl and Friends: The Wager

1) The following is a work of erotic fiction. Those under 18 (or whatever is the age of majority in your jurisdiction) should stop reading now.

2) This story contains characters and settings copyrighted by DC Comics. This story should be considered a parody of those characters and settings. It is also distributed free of charge and is a non-commercial enterprise; the author derives no profit from its distribution. No copyright infringement is intended.

3) This story contains depictions of sex as a healthy, non-degrading activity that consenting adults engage in for fun and pleasure. Those who prefer their depictions of sex to be debased should go find something else to read: this being the Internet, you shouldn't have to look hard.

4) This story uses the TV show Justice League Unlimited and its ancestors as its model, but is set in a hypothetical fourth season of JLU (hypothetical, sadly, because it seems a real fourth season will not come to pass). This setting is a plot device that allows me to arrange characters and relationships as I want them, without cumbersome continuity revisions. For those that care about such things, my most recent story before this one, "Birds in the Hand," uses the same setting.

5) Stories like this take time and effort to write, and frankly aren't worth the trouble unless more people than just me like to read them. If you enjoyed this story, or if you have constructive criticism, please drop me a line and let me know. The more feedback I receive, the more likely it is I'll keep writing new stories.

"Execute welcome protocol COLLEAGUE. Inform her I'll meet her in the parlour."

He stood up from his workbench and walked to the elevator. After he stepped inside, it began to ascend, noiselessly, on a shaped magnetic field. He passed the laboratory level and the garage and stopped at his living quarters on street level. As he stepped out of the elevator he affixed his mask to his face. The fabric released a series of nanopolymers that held it in place firmly but comfortably. He waited for a moment to let the mask adhere. Behind him, the elevator door slid shut, and the holofield which concealed it hummed to life. With a final pat to his forehead, he strode into the parlour, passing the serving droid on its way out.

Helena was sitting on the burgundy couch, a martini in one hand, the other idly stroking the soft paraleather cushion. She didn't rise when he entered, but she looked up at him, and smiled languidly.

"Nice place you have here, Mr. Terrific."

"Thank you. And in private, I prefer 'Mr. Holt' to 'Mr. Terrific.'"

Michael had never bothered to conceal the fact that he was the alter ego of the superhero Mr. Terrific. Michael Holt was well known to be the third-smartest man in the world; he was among the richest men in America; and, last but certainly not least, he was black. Given his public profile, Michael had reasoned, the chance that Mr. Terrific's true identity could be kept secret was slim to nil, so why go to the trouble? Helena had a private life she wanted to keep private, so she'd showed up in full Huntress regalia: purple mask, purple cape, purple boots, and form-fitting halter and tights, purple also. But Michael was in jeans and a flannel workshirt. His only superheroic accoutrement was his T-shaped mask: he didn't dress up when he was at home.

(Even the mask was a token gesture. Form-fitting as it was, it didn't conceal any of his features. But a superhero without powers, like the Batman or the Question or the Huntress herself, had to wear a mask. It came with the territory.)

"Normally," he continued, "I don't welcome visitors without an appointment, but you're League, so I'm making an exception. What can I do for you?"

Helena held his gaze, smoky amusement to his cool politeness. She rose, smoothly and gracefully, and stepped forward, standing only few feet away from him. They didn't know each other, except by reputation, so she was well inside his personal space. He held his ground, and Helena's smile broadened.

"They tell me I should set you at ease before telling you why I'm here, but I've never been a stickler for what other people think. I'm here on a mission. One of the special missions."

His eyes widened slightly, but that was all.

She leaned in, pushing her body up against his, and pressed her lips against his. The contact was brief but electric. "Take me to your bedroom."

He didn't move. Helena grunted in annoyance. "And here I'd been told you were a genius. I'll make this clear: I'm here. For you. To get your rocks off. If you don't want me to, that's fine, but don't waste my time. Take me to your bedroom or send me away, but spare me the shocked indecision."

He led the way through a short hall to a flight of stairs, recessed at the back of the house. They ascended to the second floor and passed into the master bedroom. Furnished in tasteful mahogany, the bedroom set—armoire, dresser, and bedframe—was set off by sea-green bedding. The window looked out onto a street of attractive brownstone residences. Like other parts of Harlem, this street had gentrified into upper-class respectability. The sun, somewhere out of sight, was setting, and the streetlamps had only just come on, leaving the bedroom in dim twilight. There was street traffic, pedestrian and vehicle, but, thanks to the soundproofing, the room was absolutely silent.

As they entered, Michael stepped aside to let Helena precede him. "Window's one-way, at the moment. No one can see us."

Helena sat on the side of the bed and crossed her long, tanned legs. She looked up at Michael, still standing by the doorway. "Guess you've been working too hard, Terrific." She emphasized the name. "The Martian upstairs wants me to help you relax."

Michael said nothing, but just watched her, still smiling. His teeth gleamed white in the dim light.

"You're handling this a lot better than most. Maybe you really are terrific." She scowled. "Guess we'll see."

She stood and struck a pose, her chest up, her breasts straining against her tight halter-top. "Here's how we play this, tonight. Not my normal game plan, but there are... special circumstances. Tonight, you take the initiative. You tell me what you want me to do. Either I'll do it or I'll tell you no. But you have to let me know what you want. I'm not going to suggest anything."

Michael stared at her, fake smile concealing uncertainty about how to proceed. Behind her mask, the Huntress' demeanour was fierce, even hostile, expression, but her body language was inviting, her legs apart, one hand at her crotch, the other across her chest, her head cocked. The message was clear: take me, if you can. Slowly he nodded. "Well, all right," he said. "So the first thing I want you to do is tell me the truth. You ever make it with a brother before?"

Helena nodded.

"Not like me you haven't." He couldn't believe what he was saying. He knew he was covering hesitation with bravado, but at least it came naturally. "Come here."

Languidly she rose and walked over to him, her hips swaying. As she reached him he pulled her close and kissed her. Her lips parted and their tongues met. She was a good kisser: her tongue pressed lightly against his then yielded. Her perfume was faint, but he was close enough now to smell it, a sweet aroma. Her body pressed against his and he hugged her, drawing her even closer; she purred.

He broke contact. "Take off your mask." His voice was husky.

She shook her head, face still stony, even after the kiss, which had been as warm and willing as he could have wished.

"Fine. Take off your top."

She didn't say anything, just stared at him, her expression a closed book. But she reached up, each hand at the opposite shoulder, and undid the clasps there. Her cape crumpled to the floor. She pushed her chest forward, her breasts straining forward against their fabric confines, and reached back. In a moment her halter-top came loose. It was connected to her tights; a few more catches and they, too, went slack. She undulated her hips and the whole costume slithered to the ground. She gingerly kicked it over her boots. Finally, with a quick motion behind her back, her sports bra came loose. She removed it with a flourish and, now free, struck another pose.

Michael stared. He worked in a field filled with super-hotties, but damn. She had good looks: high cheekbones, glossy black hair, and a gaze that could pull the breath out of your chest. The purple mask added a note of mystery and glamour. She was clearly athletic—her arms and legs were thick and developed—but she managed somehow still to be voluptuous: generous breasts, slim waist, wide hips. In the dimness her olive complexion wrapped her in shadow, her curves thrown into relief by the streetlights behind her. Her breasts pointed perkily up at him, her nipples small pink buds on the nut-brown patches of her aureoles. She was the whole package, all right, and wrapped up nicely, too: something about her partial costume—gloves, boots and mask—set against her exposed breasts, and flimsy cotton panties, made her seem even sexier.

Her panties were purple, too. Now here was a girl who was serious about theme.

Michael reached out and cupped her breasts in his hands. They were ample enough to fill his grip, and he squeezed them. She breathed a long sigh, and her nipples hardened under his thumbs.

He began walking forward, pushing her before him, until she reached the bed and sat. Standing before her, he reached down and undid his jeans. With a few ungainly motions he had them, and his boxers, slide down to his ankles, allowing him to kick them away. His cock was partially erect, and dripping pre-cum down onto the side of the bedspread. Helena looked up at him with a knowing smile, but didn't say anything.

"I guess you know what I want." He thrust his pelvis forward, only slightly.

"I guess I do. But you have to say it."

He licked his lips. "Suck it. The best you can. As long as you can."

Her eyes flickered. Michael stared at her. After a moment, she nodded. She pulled off her gloves and tossed them to the floor. She reached out and took his shaft in her hand and began to run her fingers along it. From the base of the shaft her fingertips drifted up, to his foreskin, then circled around to the other side and down. She repeated the motion, and his cock began to perk up even more, rising to a full forty-five degree angle from his body.

Leaning forward, she took hold of his member in one hand and her left breast in the other, and began to rub the two together, running her nipple in a circuit around the tip. His pre-cum dripped onto her breast and she spread it around, so that it gleamed in the dim light. Michael's toes clenched, and he put his hands on her shoulders to brace himself. A glance at his face, and his cock, proved to Helena that he was ready. She opened her mouth and went down on him.

Helena didn't think of herself as a tramp, but she'd gotten around, both as Helena Bertinelli and as the Huntress. She knew how to use her tongue, and her teeth. Any good fellatrice did. She tickled his cockhead with her tongue, especially the sensitive underside. She licked the salty tip. She sucked on his balls while stroking his shaft with her hands. She nibbled at him, biting down just hard enough to get his attention but not hard enough to hurt. But she didn't stop there. In her own mind, she wasn't just a good fellatrice, she was a great one. She supplemented the standard repertoire with her best tricks. She pressed his cockhead against her cheeks, first the left, then the right, the end of his member stopping just shy of her Huntress mask. She cupped his shaft between her breasts and squeezed them together, hard. She tickled his balls and his asshole while bobbing up and down on his cock. She smacked her lips, she panted and growled, and every so often she pulled away and looked up at him, eyes glittering behind her mask, while her hands sped up and down his member. And, finally, the pièce de la résistance, she grabbed his asscheeks, and, bracing herself, deepthroated him, thrusting forward until his cock, all eight inches, disappeared into her mouth.

Michael groaned. He'd held out for half an hour as she worked on him, his toes turning to mush, his knees aching, his hands sweating as she twisted beneath him. And he'd held off coming all that time: whenever he got too close, he grunted with effort and mentally recited the periodic table, and Helena, sensing his distress, lowered her intensity. And he'd kept back from climax. It took superb mental and physical self-control, but he wasn't called Mr. Terrific for nothing. But for all of his virtues, the deepthroating was too much, as Helena had meant it to be. She wanted to give him her best work, but after a half hour her jaw was getting sore. So, she pushed him all the way down, held him there, for one heartbeat, two, three, and as he groaned she pulled back and jacked him, right hand not rubbing or stroking, but squeezing with a twisting motion, quick and precise, right below the cockhead, while her left fondled his balls.

He came in a flood, semen shooting out and spattering against her chest, again, again, again. Helena knew her business and didn't stop, stroking and massaging until he finally ran dry, his member drooping into lassitude. When she finally let go, he staggered to one side and collapsed across the bed, lying next to her, his arms and legs extended, gasping for breath.

Helena remained where she was. She reached out and caressed his back. Mr. Terrific, she thought, you just cost me a hundred bucks.

*

The concierge looked up as Don approached his desk. "May I help you, sir?"

"Err... yes, hello. My name is Donald Hall. I have an appointment with... that is, I'm supposed to meet someone in the penthouse suite?"

"Yes, of course, sir. Excuse me a moment." The concierge, a middle-aged Latino, smiled politely and turned away. Picking up the house phone on his desk, he spoke softly into it. Donald smiled weakly and took a deep breath. His heart was pounding and he had the makings of a tension headache. When he'd got the message, he hadn't known what to think. It had come over his Justice League communicator, but it was explicit that he was to show up at the Seattle Astoria hotel and meet his contact alone. But why alone? His powers didn't work unless his brother was present. So what could the League need him to do? Between the subterfuge necessary to ditch Hank for the evening and his concern about what was going on, he was shaping up to be of no use to anyone at all.

The concierge hung up the phone and turned back to him. "Sir? You are expected." He pulled a plastic keycard from out of his desk drawer and ran it through a slot on his computer keyboard. "Just insert this into the slot in the central elevator." He gestured towards the back of the lobby.

"Thank you." Donald took the card, nodded to the concierge, and walked towards the bank of elevators. The lobby was plush: polished faux-marble floors and walls and soft lighting overhead, the large space artfully broken up with leather couches arranged into conversation nooks. Chamber music played softly, pumped in through discreet speakers. The League was clearly in no financial trouble if it could afford to book the penthouse here for a briefing. Thinking about the briefing made him tense up again. He realized the edges of the card were biting into his hand, and relaxed his grip. He reached the bank of elevators and pressed the elevator call button. Stepping back, he started at his reflection in the brass doors. Given the venue, he'd gone for business casual: dark slacks, royal blue turtleneck, and classic blazer, to match his blue eyes (not to mention his blue costume, though that wasn't in evidence, as it appeared by magic when his powers manifested). His brow was sweaty; he brushed a hand over his forehead back across his close-cropped blond hair, slicking it into place. He smiled, but came off more sickly than confident. He dropped the smile. Expressionless, he stepped through the opening doors.

The keycard worked, and in a moment, the elevator began its rapid ascent to the penthouse. He blinked with surprise when the doors opened: rather than the hallway he expected, the elevator opened onto the penthouse itself. He stepped out and the doors closed.

He was in a vestibule, like a walk-in closet, with hangars and hooks on either side. The room wasn't lit; light seeped in from the room beyond. "Hello? Donald Hall here..." A few steps led up to a landing; there were openings to the left and right. He walked up the steps and passed through on the left-hand side. As he did so, he whistled.

Now this was luxury. Soft, deep carpet; shining chrome track lighting, tastefully subdued; fully stocked, granite-topped wet bar; the biggest flat-screen TV he had ever seen outside of the Watchtower. Those were details, though. The main event, the feature that dominated the room, was the massive picture window that looked out onto the city. It was mid-evening, and the Seattle skyline was a jigsaw of white lights in grey buildings, all silhouetted against the black of the Sound.

He wasn't alone in admiring the view. Before the window there was a couch flanked by a couple of chairs. Sitting on the couch was a young woman; she was sitting along the length of the couch, legs up on the cushions, her head turned so she could watch him come in. Even in the soft light, Don recognized her immediately as Supergirl. The big red S on her white baby-tee shirt was the giveaway, but Don recognized her face, too: young, blonde, and pretty, with china-blue eyes, upturned nose, high cheekbones, and impish smile. Her good looks were unmistakeable.

"Hey, Don. Come on in. Have a seat."

Don sat down with alacrity, taking one of the chairs facing the couch. "Hello, Supergirl. I guess I am in the right place."

"You sure are. And call me Kara."

"Er... okay. Who's the briefing officer for this mission? I think there may have been some mistake—without Hank, I can't—"

"Relax, Don, relax. It's just you and me on this one. And there's no mistake. This job calls for Donald Hall, not Dove."

Kara raised her arms over her head and stretched, grunting as her arm muscles tensed. Her baby-tee stretched. Don looked away, and Kara, noticing that he wasn't looking, frowned. Damn, she thought. It's not going to be a slam-dunk. With a mental sigh, she swung her legs around and at up properly on the couch. She leaned in towards Don. "You see, J'onn has noticed that your sibling rivalry with Hank has gotten out of hand lately."

Don leapt to his brother's defence. "Oh, you know, for us, that's normal. We just don't—"

Kara interrupted him again. "It is normal, but right now it's a little too intense. It's starting to affect your performance. So J'onn figured a little time apart for you two might be a good thing. He asked me to meet with you tonight, without Hank, and debrief you a little." She smiled, more impishly than usual. She gestured to the coffee table near their seats, where a bottle of merlot and two stem glasses sat. "Wine?"

The two spent a better part of an hour talking, Kara asking questions, Don answering them. They talked about his powers, his childhood, his relationship with his brother, and his life outside the costume. Kara listened attentively, always asking good follow-up questions, sometimes sharing a common experience. Gradually Don, usually so tightly wound, relaxed, as the wine and Kara's demeanour set him at ease. And the more relaxed he got, the more aware he became that Supergirl wasn't just a fellow Leaguer and a senior operative, but a young woman, too. And what a woman! As if her cornfed girl-next-door good looks weren't enough, there was her figure. It seemed all the women of the League were blessed with hourglass figures and ample chests, but those with truly unearthly abilities, like Maxima, Barda, and especially Wonder Woman, took the matter to a whole new level. Supergirl was on that level too. Supergirl had the physical strength to move mountains, but all that power was concentrated in a girlish frame. She had delicate hands, slender arms and legs, and the measurements of a centrefold: her narrow waist plunged downwards to wide hips and up to stupendous breasts. Of all the Leaguers, only Wonder Woman had a bigger chest, and it was well-known gossip that her metal bustier measured 38DD (the Flash had checked it personally). Supergirl's bust was only slightly smaller, and she hadn't even reached her full growth yet.